Britannia's Fist: From Civil War to World War: An Alternate History

by Peter G. Tsouras

  Lincoln’s normally dark complexion took on a deeper shade as he listened. His jaw was set. There was a glittering hardness to his brown eyes. “Before the world we can rightly claim to have done everything possible to avert these events. You all know that my policy has been ‘one war at a time’ and that at every turn we have sought reconciliation and simple justice from the British. And what have we received in return? A thousand examples are at hand, but let me lay just one before you. When Grant took Vicksburg, it was found that the thirty thousand rebels were uniformly armed with the most modern British Enfield rifle. Grant’s men were armed with old flintlock muskets that been converted to percussion and Belgian rifles more dangerous to their users than the enemy. He ordered his regiments to exchange these weapons with the captured Enfields. Does anyone believe that the Confederacy would not have collapsed within a year had not the workshops of Britain kept them supplied?9

  “Some will argue that Moelfre Bay would never have happened had we not sent that ship. What would have happened in that case is that the rams would have been savaging our ports and breaking the blockade. That would have brought us to the same point but at great disadvantage.”

  He turned to Sharpe. It had not been lost on everyone else in the room that the only uniformed officer in the meeting, other than the Army’s diffident general in chief, Maj. Gen. Henry Wager Halleck, was Lincoln’s new chief “spy.” Even the formidable Stanton had not risen to give battle over the man’s independence of the secretary’s grasp. That had been due to Sharpe’s realization that while he could afford enemies, he could not have Stanton among them. He had made it clear that while he would report directly to the President, he still considered himself part of the War Department and would keep Stanton fully informed. He also made it clear he would not be stepping on Lafayette Baker’s toes. Let Stanton keep his thug for now, he thought. When Stanton had gone along, the rest of the cabinet had also fallen in line.

  Lincoln’s nod had been his cue. “Gentlemen, the President has asked me to report to you certain preparations the British have been making in Canada and the Maritimes.” Sharpe went on to describe the information that had been gathered by the few agents he had been able to send into British North America over the last month. His network was too new and sparse to develop detailed information, but what they had found was disturbing. The tempo of raising and equipping the Canadian militia in British North America had picked up notably. The Canadian forces had also stepped up their training and often in conjunction with the imperial battalions, which were imparting to the Canadians some of their precision. His agents had also identified numerous British officers traveling in mufti on the American extension of the Grand Trunk Railroad, where they would make extended stops at every station on the routes. Most interesting was the number of officers who were coming to Portland. The number of port calls for Royal Navy ships had also increased.

  Sharpe concluded with the latest reports that pointed to a sudden concentration of British and Canadian volunteer troops, ostensibly for training exercises in the region known as the Canadian “Peninsula,” bounded by Lake Huron on the west, Lake Erie on the south, and Lake Ontario on the east. This area was the southernmost projection of Canada that wedged itself between Michigan in the west and New York in the east. There were two points between the lakes where the borders ran; one in the west opposite Detroit and another in the east opposite Buffalo. Every eye in the room was drawn to the map on the wall as Sharpe traced the concentrations. Each man could picture in his mind’s eye the battlegrounds of the War of 1812, drawn with failure and danger. In this area, the U.S. Army had launched its ill-planned offensives only to be thrown back across the border and followed by British invasions, the most dangerous only stopped at Chippewa in 1814 by Winfield Scott. The memory of that train of disasters had not been lost on any American.10

  When he finished there was a dead silence.

  Seward spoke first. “There is no doubt that the British have planned a surprise attack on us. Russell’s connivance to let the ram escape was only a part of this dastardly scheme. They have, no doubt, been planning this with the rebels for some time. Mr. President, war is upon us. We must act quickly to prepare.”

  Stanton spoke next. “There is not a moment to lose if we are not to wake up and see Detroit and Buffalo in British hands.” He looked at Halleck. He was called “Old Brains” in the old prewar Army, where he had passed for that wonder of wonders, a military intellectual who actually wrote books on warfare. He certainly did not present a very martial appearance, a plump and bug-eyed man. As a field commander, he had been sound but overly cautious. With a subordinate like Grant to reap successes in his name, Halleck had found himself chosen as general in chief by a president desperate for sound military advice. That is what he got, but unfortunately that advice was not overly leavened with any boldness or willingness to take responsibility. Still, Halleck’s strategic sense was sound and the necessary action obvious.

  “I recommend that those two points be immediately reinforced with a division from Grant’s Army and a division from Meade’s Army. Although Rosecrans’s Army of the Cumberland is closer, he is actively maneuvering to bring Bragg to battle, and I would not divert his forces and weaken him at such a moment.”

  Sharpe was worried, not about what he knew of British deployments but about what he did not know. The geography of his home state of New York fell like a template over his worries. The strong railway ran from Montreal to Albany and down the Hudson Valley to New York City. Halfway between Albany and the city was Kingston, his home town. It was a natural invasion route and one of historic importance. Burgoyne had tried it and come a cropper at Saratoga in 1777, just short of his objective of Albany. But then he had had to hack his way through a wilderness. Now the thick web of railroads and good surface roads knit the region together. Yet there was nothing like the studied activity of British forces in the Canadian Peninsula. That was very strange. He gave the British credit for common sense and more than that after his dinner with Wolseley. The absence of activity in that direction was immensely suspicious. The Grand Trunk led to Albany in one direction and to Montreal and Ottowa in the other. If Albany was about 135 miles from the Canadian border, Montreal was only thirty-five miles from the American border.

  He raised the issue. Unfortunately, it was the vulnerability of Montreal not Albany that seemed to arouse the most interest. The discussion turned to the opportunity this presented. Stanton waved away the danger, his focus still on the Great Lakes. “The New York State Militia and home guards should be called up in any case. They should be able to delay any force the British could send across the border there.” He glared at Sharpe, “As you’ve said yourself, Albany is 135 miles from the border. Buffalo and Detroit are right across the border.”

  Halleck came in on Stanton’s side, to no one’s surprise. “General Sharpe is correct to point out how vulnerable Montreal is. Here is an opportunity to strike at the heart of Canada. If we seize Montreal, we sever British communications and cut British North America in two. Remember, their settlements extend no more than fifty miles from the border. The XI and XII corps could be detached from the Army of the Potomac and deployed to Albany as a staging area.” He glanced at Stanton for approval and saw the man’s brow furrow. “But there is not the urgency that there is to defend the Great Lakes. There is no reason to rush up there now. We need to carefully plan this.”

  When Sharpe saw that Lincoln would support Stanton, he folded his tent.

  The meeting dragged on into the night as the entire range of war preparations was discussed. Lincoln finally adjourned the meeting at two in the morning. All through the night, aides and secretaries had been filing in and out to carry messages to the various departments of the government, mostly war warning alerts to Army and department commanders, coastal forts, Navy bases and yards, and the blockading squadrons. As the meeting broke up, Lincoln quietly took Stanton by the arm and pulled him to the window. “I thank Providence we put Ripl
ey out to pasture three weeks ago. We are going to need a lot of those ‘new-fangled gimcracks’ he hated so much. We should have Colonel Ramsey rummage about his old arsenal to see what Ripley hid away. We cannot afford to overlook any advantages. The full weight of their empire will be against us.”11

  “I’ve already done that. He reported to me yesterday that there were fifty of the coffee mill guns there in late August just before he took over the Ordnance Bureau from Ripley. Seems there are only forty of the coffee mill guns now.” He looked over at Sharpe. “But two thousand Spencer repeaters have just been delivered.”12

  While they were speaking, Sharpe had taken Halleck aside. “May I make an impertinent suggestion, General?”

  Halleck’s protruding eyes stared briefly at him, disconcerting as ever. “Of course, General.” Whatever else Halleck was, he was a military politician and had seen the favor Lincoln had bestowed on Sharpe, the only other uniformed officer who was a regular at cabinet meetings.

  “I would suggest that a brigade at least might be usefully sent to Maine as well.”

  “But you reported no British concentrations against New England.”

  “Yes, I know, but prudence is a goddess who must be honored even by the boldest commander. I am worried about all the attention they have been paying to Maine.”

  Halleck realized he could have it both ways—play up to a presidential favorite and take out some strategic insurance. “Good suggestion. Yes, a brigade should be enough. I’ll see to it tomorrow morning.”

  “One more thing, General. May I also suggest that all the Maine regiments be sent? Announce that only three regiments are going, but send them all—horse, foot, and artillery. The 20th Maine saved the Army at Little Round Top. It would help the President politically if we could send those heroes home for a while. Col. Joshua Chamberlain is very popular up there right now. They could even do some recruiting. God knows that Maine bled at Gettysburg.”13

  It was as good as done.

  CHICKAMAUGA CREEK, TENNESSEE, 12:00 PM, SEPTEMBER 20, 1863

  The Confederacy’s mighty right arm had arrived on the battlefield of Chickamauga—“the Creek of Death” to those who fought there—on the second day of the fighting. Lt. Gen. James Longstreet was a big-bearded, burly man on a big horse, as befitted the man whom Lee called his “Old Warhorse.” He commanded the First Corps of the Army of Northern Virginia, the strongest offensive organization in American history. Longstreet and two of his divisions had been rushed by rail to the aid of the defeat-haunted Braxton Bragg and his Army of Tennessee to save them from another thrashing by Maj. Gen. William Rosecrans’s Army of the Cumberland. The first day of the battle had been fought without him. His troops were still detraining on that day and force marching to the field. Rosecrans had been warned by Sharpe to expect Longstreet’s reinforcement. He had taken the news seriously, but the intelligence staff that Sharpe had installed was too new to catch wind of Longstreet’s presence. Even had they been more experienced, Longstreet arrived with such speed that it would have taken a miracle for that news to have run ahead of him. In that light, Rosecrans thought he was lucky to finally force Bragg to fight before his reinforcements had arrived. He was in for a big surprise.14

  Bragg’s men felt Longstreet’s presence immediately. One lieutenant remarked, “Longstreet is the boldest and bravest-looking man I ever saw. I don’t think he would dodge if a shell were to burst under his chin.”

  As Longstreet coiled his corps for its strike, he was taken aback by the volume of fire that was coming from Wilder’s Lightning Brigade almost a half mile away, and “thought for a moment that a fresh Federal corps had come crashing down on his left.”15

  Almost at once, his puncher’s practiced eye observed the main chance opening up before him and seized it. A Union division pulled out of the line before its replacement was at hand. A wide gap yawned, and Longstreet threw the divisions of Hood and McLaws into it. The rebel yells that had flown over so many victorious fields in Virginia now echoed across the thickets and woods of Tennessee. Two Union divisions were driven back as Longstreet’s men severed the Union battle line, and like a back-broke bull, that line collapsed. For the first time in the war, an experienced and valiant field army had been struck such a blow that it dissolved as Homer’s “Godsent Panic seized them, comrade to bloodcurdling rout,” and sent the men in blue in flight toward the railroad hub of Chattanooga.16

  Amid that rout was Maj. James Callaway. On the first day of the fighting, his brigade commander had relieved the incompetent commander of the 81st Indiana and put Callaway in his place. His presence on the demoralized unit was electric. He was truly charismatic—soldiers were drawn to him like iron filings to a magnet and his determination flowed out to them. All through the first day he led the newly emboldened Hoosiers of the 81st to become the fighting heart of their brigade. As other units fell under the enemy’s sledgehammer blows, the 81st stuck it out and poured such fire into the attacking Confederates that their regiments melted away. Again on the second day, the concentrated fire of the 81st broke every attack.

  As soon as my battalion front was unmasked by the skirmishers we opened a terrible and deadly fire upon the advancing foe. The firing was continued with unabated fury on both sides, the enemy steadily advancing and our men determinedly resisting until but 3 men of the enemy’s first line and about half of his second line were standing; their comrades apparently had fallen in windrows and his farther progress seemed checked, perhaps, impossible.17

  It was all for nothing. The flanking regiment, his own 21st Illinois, folded and broke. The Confederates were through and lapping around Callaway’s men. He pulled out just before the whole regiment was captured. Callaway reformed his men and, with the brigade commander, gathered up every man they could to put back into the fight. They made stand after stand before falling back. At last, he wrote, “we then withdrew from the field quietly and sullenly with every regimental color and field piece of the brigade.…”18

  Rosecrans and his corps commanders were swept away in the panic, all except Maj. Gen. George Thomas, who rallied his corps for the terrible rearguard defense of Snodgrass Hill. Again and again the Confederate waves struck the hill, each time seeming to crest it, but each time falling back in wreckage and ruin. Thomas held on and would not budge all that terrible day, earning himself the immortal title of the “Rock of Chickamauga.” That honor would have meant nothing if Bragg had not obsessed about overwhelming Thomas instead of sending his army in pursuit. His corps commanders, Longstreet chief among them, begged him to pursue the enemy. They “produced a Confederate soldier who had been captured and then had escaped. He had seen the Federal disarray for himself and was brought before Bragg to testify that the enemy was indeed in full retreat. Bragg would not accept the man’s story. ‘Do you know what a retreat looks like?’ he asked acidly. The soldier stared back and said, ‘I ought to, General; I’ve been with you during your whole campaign.’”19

  THE NORTH ATLANTIC, 11:20 AM, SEPTEMBER 21, 1863

  Winslow’s deception of sailing north through the Irish Sea and the Northern Channel to the North Atlantic had had its risks, and one of them had given Kearsarge away. While most of the pursuing British ships sent in pursuit followed his false start to the southeast through the St. George Channel, which connected the Irish Sea south to the Atlantic, he had been passed by a Liverpool steamer. Kearsarge had been flying false colors, the French tricolor, but the skipper of the steamer knew a Frenchman when he saw one. He also knew battle damage when he saw it. He stopped a few hours later at Stranraer, a ferry port in southwest Scotland, where the telegraph had brought the news of Moelfre Bay and ignited a firestorm of anger. From there, the captain’s news sped south on the telegraph to London. Almost immediately upon receipt, the nearest Royal Navy warships were alerted and ordered in pursuit. Winslow had calculated that the northern route would encounter the fewest British warships; their bases were largely in the south and east of Britain. The odds were with him b
ut luck was not. Coaling in Stranraer was the HMS Undaunted, a wood screw frigate of the same class as Liverpool. She was new, built in 1861; big at 4,020 tons; and fast, and she mounted fifty-one guns. Her captain did not wait for specific orders and put to sea at once. Captain and crew were out for blood.20

  The captain shrewdly guessed that his prey would strike directly for New York, hoping to outrace news of the battle. He crowded on sail and ordered the engines at full speed. On September 12 he caught up with Kearsarge. When she was identified, the crew burst into cheers as the drums beat to quarters. Winslow’s lookout had seen Undaunted almost at the same time. Battle stations were sounded. Lamson joined Winslow on the quarterdeck and extended his telescope.

  “Looks just like Liverpool. And she is not blissfully ignorant of who we are. That ship is straining every plank to close with us.”

  Winslow lowered his own glass. “One British frigate is enough. It took the two of us and some luck to take Liverpool. I won’t risk another fight with such a big ship.”

  Lamson felt a twinge of disappointment, but Winslow precluded any impertinent suggestions to stay and fight by slamming his telescope shut. “We are going to run away. The Navy will need this ship.”

  Running away was easier said than done. Kearsarge’s sails and engines gave it their all and began to lengthen the distance between them, but in a few hours it was apparent that the Undaunted was faster and would eventually close to within cannon shot. By September 15, Undaunted’s forward 110-pounder pivot gun fired its first shot, which fell well astern of Kearsarge. An hour later, her second shot struck only a hundred yards short. The next shell struck the sternpost and blew it to pieces.

  Splinters from the impact blew out and up to fall on the quarterdeck. Winslow ordered the helmsman, “Hard about!” To his executive officer, Lt. Cdr. William Thornton, he said, “We will rake her, Mr. Thornton. Aim for her waterline. We must slow her down.”